Han was slumped against a tree, his innards pouring out of the gaping wound in his stomach. He tried to curse, tried to speak, but he couldn't. All he could do, was criticise his foolishness, and feel nothing but sorrow that he would not be around for the inevitable victory of the People. That he wouldn't see his wife again, or watch his children grow.

But that didn't matter now.

Han was a warrior, a stalwart defender of his land. He had fought the French, and he had fought the Americans, and now he was a martyr. His eyes started to glaze over, and they casually swung left and right, taking in the sight of his men as they fought and died against a determined and concealed enemy. He would have laughed, if he could, at the irony of it; normally it was the Imperialists who blundered into an ambush. 

But he had one more thing he could do, a chance to redeem himself. He stuffed his hands into the small pouch he kept at his side, and pulled out a flare gun. The thing was a relic, used by the French even before Vietnam rose up against them. He hoped the chambered round still worked. 

Pointing it up towards a small gap in the canopy above, he pulled the trigger. The round caught, and catapulted itself towards the gap, trailing red smoke and screaming like a Catherine wheel. The flare climbed to around 50 feet and hung briefly, before exploding. A bright ruby sphere glided gently in its place. Though it was daylight, Han knew someone had to have seen it. He hoped, at least, it would tell the other heroes of the People that the Americans were still at large.

And then they'd kill them. 

As Han died there, slumped against the tree, the fighting lulled. His men were all dead or incapacitated, and a thick silence fell over the scene.